


My Fair Lord

by DK65



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe--Film, Alternate Universe--Musical, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7188110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DK65/pseuds/DK65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sansa Stark meets a flower seller outside the King's Landing Opera House and decides to teach him to talk and behave like a lordling...<br/>These characters belong to GRRM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Fair Lord

It was raining by the time the opera ended at seven at night.

Sansa wished she had kept an eye on the weather when she accepted Joffrey’s invitation to the opera that day. But she hadn’t, because they were playing her favourite, Florian and Jonquil, with a very fine soprano singing Jonquil. And she would never have been able to afford a seat in King’s Landing’s opera house, not on a research scholar’s stipend. It was just enough—along with a small allowance from her trust fund—to pay for her books, clothing, board, lodgings and occasional (very!) treats. She’d hoped Joffrey, who was the son of her father’s best friend, Robert Baratheon, would have the courtesy of dropping her off at her lodgings on the Street of Steel. After all, they’d had an enjoyable evening, chatting pleasantly on commonplace subjects, although she wished he wouldn’t talk during her favourite arias.

But he had been invited to dine with the Tyrells tonight; it appeared Margaery’s grandmother was in town. And he’d left Sansa with a careless “I’m sure you’ll be able to catch a cab here for your lodgings, won’t you?” And Sansa had not wanted to disagree; she did not want to tell him that cab drivers seldom stopped for lone women and that she’d been told, again and again, never to take a cab by herself in King’s Landing, especially in the evening or late at night, for fear of all kinds of calamities. She’d merely smiled and thanked him for a pleasant evening and wished him a good night, even as her mind seethed with all the things she’d love to say to him.

So there she was, standing glumly in the porch of the opera house, watching Joffrey drive by in his fancy new car, driven by his new chauffeur, Trant, as the cabs whizzed by, splashing the passers-by. She could smell the heavenly scent of blue roses; she turned her head to find a flower seller, a young man, selling bouquets to all the opera goers. Sansa marvelled at the scent; the blue rose was a northern flower, cultivated in the glass houses in Winterfell. She had seldom seen one since she had come to King’s Landing years ago, to complete her education. She wondered who had brought it south and how it had been cultivated here.

Just then, the young man who was selling the flowers looked up into her eyes. Again, Sansa was surprised; she’d noticed his dark hair and expected him to be a Dornishman or a Stormlander. But his was a long northern face, more accustomed to solemnity than drama—his quizzical grey eyes looked into hers.

“Can I be of assistance, my lady?” he asked, in a typical King’s Landing accent, with the hint of a northern burr there somewhere.

Sansa bit her lip, “I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I need to get a cab to return to my lodgings. But I don’t think I will get one, and I don’t know if it is safe to take one at this time of day. I may as well wait,” she said with a sigh, “for the rain to end.”

“Doesn’t look as if it will end,” said the young man, knowledgeably. “It’ll rain all night. And you can’t stand here all night, can you? And I have no plans to stay here all night either. I want to get home to my supper. So, my lady, if you will have the kindness to keep an eye on my flowers—there are few enough of them, it’s true—I’ll find us a cab. He’ll drop you off to your lodgings first and then I’ll get him to take me to Rosby; my mother will be waiting up for me.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She had never met this young man before, and yet, he was the only one she could rely on. She agreed to the young man’s proposal and stood near his basket of blue roses, while he went off, shrugging into his long black raincoat, to fetch them a cab. Almost all the opera-goers had left by then, eager to get out of the rain and home to dinner, so there were no buyers for his flowers. He did not take long; he was soon there with a cab. He handed her in first, and then jumped in, putting his basket in the passenger seat next to the driver.

For lack of anything better to do, Sansa began to talk to him. At first, it was a nervous reaction; she knew nothing of the man, and yet, here she was, taking a cab with him. He seemed a pleasant and well-behaved sort, but you never could tell. She’d heard horrid tales from her landlady, a Mrs Seaworth, whose husband was a sailor, of all the horrors that could befall a young lady alone in the city, as she was. So the questions were a ploy to distract him, in case he’d thought of seducing, raping or murdering her on the way home. She began by asking him his name—he said he was called Jon Snow.

“How is it,” she asked, “that you sell blue roses here? I have never seen them grown anywhere in King’s Landing, only in the north." 

“My mother,” he said proudly, “is a northwoman. She came south with my father, who died before I was born. He left her a bit of money, enough to buy land Rosby way and do a bit of market gardening. She used to keep hens and sell eggs; keep goats and make cheese and sell that; even sell vegetables. And then she noticed how much the ladies of King’s Landing liked flowers. So she began growing flowers and selling those. And I used to help her—I’ve taken on the selling of flowers now; she only comes into King’s Landing once a week for the farmer’s market, to sell fruits and vegetables and eggs and milk.”

Sansa was impressed. “How old was your mother when she lost your father?” she asked.

Jon pursed his lips. “Oh, some sixteen, seventeen years old. She was a girl, but she was smart. My father’s family was of no help at all; his father died in the asylum, insane, soon after his death. My grandmother had died years earlier. Mum had no one but herself to rely on. And I think she did splendidly.” He grinned at her.

“So what do you plan to do to grow your business—the selling of flowers? Because your mum is right—the ladies of King’s Landing love their flowers. And you could sell flower arrangements as well as bouquets, you know…” Sansa trailed off. She did not know if this was quite the right thing to say—one did not, her governess, Miss Mordane, had often told her, talk of business to men—it was not a woman’s place.

“Yes, I know,” he said excitedly, “I’m even thinking of selling window boxes and hanging baskets to city residents. But,” he said gloomily, “it takes money to rent a shop here. And it takes class to sell to the ladies and gentlemen. They all talk so posh, just like you do, my lady. I speak like a workman from the city does.”

He was right, Sansa noted; he did have a strong King’s Landing accent, much like the older sons of her Mrs Seaworth, most of whom served on their father’s ship. The three younger boys—Devan, Steffon and Stannis—spoke more like gentlefolk; Sansa thought it might have had something to do with the fact that the older boys had been educated at the local sept, while the three youngest got a better education at the Baratheon School for Boys, that Joffrey’s Uncle Stannis, whom he despised so much, had set up a few years ago, with the mission of educating the promising sons of nobles, merchants and smallfolk together. Of course, all of them had to pass a stiff entrance exam and of course, it started operating much after Mr Snow had finished school—she estimated his age as closer to Robb’s than her own.

They were somewhat silent as they arrived at her lodgings. He got off, opened the door for her and handed her out, guiding her on to dry land and away from the puddles. She gave him the money to pay for her share of the cab fare, and was surprised when he gave her a bouquet of blue roses.

“I can tell you liked the flowers, my lady,” he remarked. “And it’s better you should have them, else they’ll be thrown in the rubbish, however sweet they smell.”

He sounded sad as he said this. She did not know why she acted so impulsively just then, for she said, “Can you come and see me tomorrow in the morning, Mr Snow, at ten? Perhaps I can find a way to help you set up your shop.”

He looked at her, surprised, but agreed at once. She went in, surprised at herself—she was not the impulsive sort; that was Arya, with her unsuitable friendships with all the world. She was careful and canny; that was what had kept her out of Ramsay Bolton’s clutches, when he’d thought to inherit her, as he had the Dreadfort, with the death of his brother Domeric, her fiancé. Her father had never wanted her to marry into the Bolton clan; there had always been bad blood between the Starks and the Boltons. But her uncle Brandon was married to Barbrey, Domeric’s aunt, who had encouraged the match. And Domeric, for all his northern looks, had acquired southern polish from his education in the Vale. She had been fond of Aunt Barbrey, despite her sharp tongue, for the poor woman had never fallen pregnant for all the twenty-odd years of her marriage. “Perhaps it’s because she rides so much,” her mother had theorised, pursing her lips and frowning. But she had been an affectionate aunt to Domeric; she was equally fond of Robb and the rest of the Stark brood.

So when Domeric died so suddenly, of some kind of stomach bug, after paying a visit to Ramsay, his half-brother, Sansa became suspicious. She visited Domeric’s mother, Bethany, who had come to like her reluctantly, to console her. She had never got along with Domeric’s father, whom she found rather cold and distant and somewhat cruel. It was Bethany, in her cold rage at losing her son, who spoke of poison and Ramsay’s involvement. And when she died soon after, Sansa could not help but believe her. She encouraged her mother to let Arya accompany Lady Smallwood and her daughter to Oldtown, where both girls would complete their education at a fine seminary there for young ladies; Arya needed to make friends with young women from her own background, not spend her days riding endlessly, playing with butchers, bakers, blacksmiths, and the gods knew who else. She encouraged her father to send Bran and Rickon to the Vale for their education, much to the indignation of both boys. She encouraged Jeyne Poole’s romance with Theon Greyjoy and even helped the two to elope to the Iron Islands, much to the disgust of her parents. They felt that her grief over Domeric’s death had addled her brains—they sent her to King’s Landing, to the university, because she and Domeric had always planned to go south to King’s Landing University and study side by side. They hoped that absence from the north would calm Sansa’s mind, as would hard work at her studies. She had always been a good and diligent student, even better than Robb, because she liked to work hard and be praised for it.

Of course, when she came to King’s Landing, she realised she stood out like a sore thumb. Of course, she’d learned to speak with a southern accent; Miss Mordane had drilled that into them all, even Arya. But there were times when, without her realising it, her northern roots were apt to become apparent. She learnt to control the way she spoke, and to sound as though she had been no further north than the Twins. It was the effort she put into this innocent deception, only meant to make her life less difficult in King’s Landing, which led her to take an interest in linguistics and notice the variety of accents around her. She had soon learned to tell where any person came from, based upon their accent alone. And she soon came to realise, from her observation of society in King’s Landing, that she had arrived in a superficial world, in which the appearance of something counted for far more than the reality. So she felt well-equipped to help Jon Snow, the young market gardener, realise his dream of setting up a flower shop that would cater to the high society of King’s Landing.

She was working in her sitting room when Mrs Seaworth came up to tell her that there was a young man to see her. She asked that he be sent up; when he came, she offered him something suitable to drink for that time of day, and then got down to business.

“Mr Snow,” she said, “I was impressed by what you told me of your mother and her spirit of enterprise. And I was also impressed by your plans to set up a flower shop in King’s Landing. I think it has real possibilities. And you are right—the fact that you speak like a workman will make it difficult for you to sell flowers to the nobility. There are very few among them who see beyond superficialities to the honest worth of a man or woman. Therefore, I would like to help you to speak posh, as you put it."

“Miss Stark,” he said, “it’s very kind of you to offer ma’am, but how do you propose we go about it? Most of my day is taken up with work on our farm; my mother, may the gods bless her, is a strong and healthy woman, but I feel I should stand by her side in any case. And then, how do I pay you?”

She would have answered his questions—she was certain, later, when she looked back on it, that she would have—but just then, Margaery danced in, blithely brushing aside the efforts of Mrs Seaworth, who had wanted her to wait downstairs, for Miss Stark already had a visitor.

“Sansa, I wanted you to be the first to know…” Margaery trilled, showing off the enormous ruby set in a band of elaborately worked gold on the ring finger of her right hand.

“So Joffrey popped the question last night?” Sansa asked quietly. “Congratulations, Margaery.”

Margaery smiled and pouted. “Joffrey popped the question days ago, dear girl—I told him I wanted him to meet my family before I gave him my answer. I wanted Grandma, mother and my brothers to meet him and tell me what they thought. I know father will approve of anyone I select.” Of course, Sansa recalled suddenly—Joffrey had gone to the Tyrells last night for dinner.

She was recalled to the present by Margaery, who turned to Jon Snow and said, pleasantly and politely, “I don’t believe I have the pleasure of knowing you, sir. How is it that you are visiting Miss Stark?”

“Mr Snow was kind enough to find me a cab last night, after the opera got over. I asked him to come this morning, to discuss a business proposal. I would like to help him improve his prospects by learning to talk like a gentleman. He feels this will help when he sets up his own shop.” Sansa kept her remarks brief—she had no wish to disclose more about Jon Snow and his business than she had to, to Margaery. It was true that Margaery was her best friend; and yet, Sansa detected in the older girl a certain need to compete against her. Sansa had met Margaery almost as soon as she had arrived in King’s Landing and had been extremely impressed by her charm, sophistication and worldly wisdom, just as she had been impressed by Cersei Lannister Baratheon’s beauty.

“Talk like a gentleman? But Mr Snow, I don’t think that a working man like yourself—without the benefits of a really first-rate education—can really do so. And if Miss Stark claims to help you… well!” Margaery gave her a meaningful look, as though answering a question on why Sansa had taken an interest in this particular young man. “And then, speech is only half the battle won—you must also behave like a gentleman. And not having been brought up as such… I should be very surprised if Miss Stark can really help you!” Margaery ended what she had been saying with a chuckle. Jon Snow smiled, and Sansa noted a steely glint in his eyes. She could feel herself flushing with rage, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. And yet she did not explode, but responded with:

“Margaery and Mr Snow—I have a proposal for you. I believe I can teach Mr Snow to talk and behave like a gentleman, within the space of … three months. You will see the proof of my work at King’s Landing races and the Blessed Baelor Ball. If he meets your criteria of a gentleman, you pay me a thousand dragons. If he does not, I will pay you that amount. Is it a deal?”

While Margaery smiled and nodded her head with a laugh, saying that it would be the easiest thousand dragons she made in her life (Sansa was certain it was the only thousand dragons she would make, ever, for Margaery was a lady, in the truest sense of the word and did not work), Jon Snow pursed his lips and gave her a questioning look. When she smiled and nodded, he gave his assent.  
Margaery left soon afterwards, talking of a need to go shopping with her mother and grandmother, for her marriage, which would take place after the Blessed Baelor Ball. Sansa congratulated her once again, wishing her a happy married life. When she left, Jon Snow asked bluntly,

“If you lose, where on earth will you lay your hands on a thousand dragons?” This was the question uppermost in Sansa’s mind, but she replied, “I have no intention of losing, Mr Snow, and neither, I think, do you. This shop of yours… if you could sell your fresh fruit and vegetables in a shop also, instead of the farmer’s market, just think how well you could provide for your mother and how happy and proud you will make her. Just think of her and work hard for now. Will it be possible for you to take off three months from your farming duties?”

Jon Snow nodded. “I think I can convince her,” he remarked. “I’ve often spoken to her about setting up shops, not just in King’s Landing, but in Duskendale and Rosby and Stokeworth. She’s always laughed it off as a fancy. But now… I think we can do it, Miss Stark. Somehow, I feel the gods have sent you to me, to help me. And I will not say nay to a gift from the gods.” He left soon afterwards, promising to come the next day, prepared to board with the Seaworth boys for the next three months. Sansa wondered what Mrs Seaworth would think of the experiment, for experiment it was. She had taught herself to sound as though she had been born and bred in the south. Miss Mordane’s insistence that she say certain words in a certain manner had been the beginning, and then, when she had come south, she had noticed how people spoke and imitated them. She hoped she could help Jon Snow, not only because she wanted to win the bet she’d made with Margaery, but also for his own sake. She could not but be impressed by his account of his mother; she would love to meet the lady herself someday. And she had liked the manner in which he had immediately stepped in to help her the day before; had she still been a girl of eleven, she would have compared his behaviour very favourably with that of a knight in a song. And yes, he was certainly more considerate, kind and thoughtful compared to Joffrey. It was at that moment that she felt a little sorry for Margaery, who was marrying Joffrey out of a certain misplaced loyalty to her family, who wanted her to make this alliance that would place them close to the top, not only of King’s Landing society but also that of all of Westeros.


End file.
